


Royal Seal

by opalsandlace



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Bad Parenting, Black Reader, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Dark Peter Parker, Death of a Love Interest, Dubious Morality, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prince Peter Parker, Reader is black, Reader-Insert, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25668967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalsandlace/pseuds/opalsandlace
Summary: Prince!Peter Parker is betrothed to a woman he's never met. He hates her already.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	Royal Seal

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: dubcon
> 
> this is a DARK fic, ok? peter is not nice. there's no romance here. 18+
> 
> For @marissecretfantasies MCU 500 follower writing challenge on tumblr #maries500challenge
> 
> Prompt: “Who is the lamb and who is the knife? Midas is king and he holds me so tight, and turns me to gold in the sunlight.”

“You will be married before the first snowfall,” the king declared.

It is after those words that Peter decided that he hates you--betrothed. He had never met you. All he knew was that you were a terrible, cursed wench that he never wished to see. A burdensome blight upon his life that would drag him down until he was as cold and unhappy as his father. At twenty-five years of age, he would much prefer to enjoy the pleasures of bachelorhood than to suffer under the obligations of a politically orchestrated coupling.

He would rather live out the rest of his life as a stableboy, shoveling horse shit for the rest of his days than suffer this reality.

Peter said nothing in reply. He simply pursed his lips and yanked at the hem of his jacket.

“It is your du--,” the king began.

“It is my duty to wed whatever worthy match has been arranged for me. To sire an heir who will inherit the throne. To carry on the Parker name and maintain the kingdom’s prosperity and good fortune.” 

The king looked up at his son then. Forgotten were the discursive contracts littering his deck. The hand holding a stick of red sealing wax paused in its motion. The end of the stick still close to the flame, blood-red wax oozed onto a stray bit of parchment.

“If you know and understand your duty as prince, then stop sulking like a child. You should be grateful. They say the girl is beautiful and demure; she won’t give you any trouble. Your mother, even with her pedigree, was a quarrelsome fuss when we wed. If what they say is true, your intended is nothing of the sort. You will come to thank me eventually. When you have... _matured_. Now, leave me. See that the servants have begun to prepare her quarters. There is much to do.”

Peter scoffed then. Without another word, he turned on his heels and marched from the room. Servants in the corridors avoided his gaze. They were all too familiar with the stormy look in his eye. In his foul moods, the frustration and poor temper seemed to seep from his pores, a dark cloud hanging over his head. The prince was certainly more adored as a boy than he is now. As a child, he was rosy-cheeked and cheery, a joy to everyone around him. But, as he grew past adolescence and his duties as crown prince increased, his countenance shifted into one hard and detached. He no longer smiled at the palace staff as he happened upon them. He ceased to laugh at the footman’s riddles. He rarely visited the expanse of the royal library, his favorite chair left unoccupied for years. Instead, he spent all his attention on game hunting and other so-called “nobleman’s pursuits”. He’d changed, and not so much for the better.

Despite his present annoyance, Peter obeyed his father’s orders. He stalked to the wing of the castle that would soon belong to him--and his bride-to-be. The palace staff had already begun to prepare your quarters. Stone floors had been swept; elaborate rugs covered the cold, hard surfaces. The curtains were pulled back and windows open to allow air to circulate. It was chilly in your intended chambers but tapestries would be hung from the walls before your arrival. There was already a gilded tinder box above the hearth to ensure your warmth and comfort. Peter scoffed at the sight, the effort that the kingdom was putting into your arrival. She should be grateful to even be considered worthy of a place in his family. A princess from a foreign land. Already causing such a fuss in the kingdom, it grated Peter’s nerves hearing them gossip about her.

_They say she is more gentle than the fawn._

_I’ve heard she is more beautiful than Her Majesty was in her youth._

_You know, her family is descended from the Fae. One look into her eyes and you cannot refuse her request._

_Surely, a soul as warm as hers can thaw the frigid heart of the prince._

That last bit had been said by the prince’s own aunt, The Duchess of Wentworth. Everyone in the kingdom, it seemed, hoped that something (or someone) could restore him.

_

The frost-coated grass crunched underfoot as you meandered off the garden pathway. Who knew when you would see this landscape again? The earth was dormant and ice-encased, but it was still your home. You gripped the hood of your cloak tighter to your chin with frigid fingers. It was a terribly chilly day, but you needed to be outside. To pace the palace grounds. To feel something other than the apprehension that sat so firmly on your chest. Wrought-iron fencing surrounded the gardens, towering over hedges and traveling vines. The sturdy bars of the perimeter resembled the same that covered prison doors and windows. You fought your mind hard not to make the parallel but…

Your impending marriage to Prince Peter of York would be the same, no doubt. A union as frigid as the stone floors of cellar prisons. A melancholic loneliness like those of prisoners and outcasts. A love as barren as the dirt floors of the holding cells. Perhaps, even the abuse doled out to those who broke the law. You had heard the gossip spread about the Prince, that he was cold and frightening. According to rumor, it had been an overnight change. One day, he had been the apple of the people’s eye. The next, he was feared by those around him. You had even heard talk that he had been cursed by a jealous witch to transform into a wolf at every full moon. You wondered if you would be safe in York. You already knew that happiness was too much to ask for.

“Your Highness,” a sing-sing voice interrupted your thoughts.

You turned your watery eyes to see your cousin Shuri beckoning you inside.

“Stop sulking and come in! A parcel has come for you!”

  
  


_

Your wedding dress had arrived, wrapped carefully in wax-lined burlap to protect it during the journey to you. The garment, an intricate thing, had been the brainchild of your kingdom’s most renowned seamstress. It was a blend of fine silk and satin. The fabric was gossamer-thin, with web-like lace cascading into a train.

“Well, try it on then!” Shuri teased. “If it doesn’t fit, let me have it. You can get married in one of your ball gowns.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I’d rather not get married at all,” you mumbled, eyes downcast. 

Before Shuri could answer, your mother waltzed into the room. With her poise and assured air, she looked all the queen you were expected to become. She lifted an arched brow as she spotted the garment before you.

“Has the dress finally arrived? I thought I would have to send for it myself,” she quipped. “Let’s see it on you. If it needs adjustments, they will need to be made post-haste.”

You carefully stepped into the gown. Shuri appeared behind you, adjusting fastenings and closures. Just when you thought she was finished, another button or hook would appear.

“Why such a rush,” you chirped, trying to keep the apprehension from your voice. 

Your mother constantly reminded you of how blessed you were to be betrothed to Prince Peter. She frequently lectured you about the importance of good breeding, of the weight of a family name. Never once did she mention love or even like. Never a word about friendship or the foundation of a merry matrimony. She was just grateful that her youngest daughter had outgrown her ugly duckling phase soon enough to be a suitable match for someone of high standing. 

“The royal seer has predicted that the first snow will fall in a fortnight. The servants are already packing your things. We embark in the morning,” the Queen clipped.

You and Shuri shared a knowing look. 

Things were about to change.

_

“Peter!,” the King bellowed.

Peter stormed into the room, already fuming. He had overheard the servants’ gossip: you were expected to arrive in just two days. The wedding would follow shortly thereafter.

Spotting the discontent on his son’s face, the King smirked.

“Something the matter, my boy?” he asked.

Peter scoffed. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving jostled strands over his forehead.

“You enjoy making me suffer, don’t you? Damning me to a life as unhappy as yours? Even with a title, this _wench_ will never be--.”

The King’s smug expression shifted quickly into one of quiet rage.

“This ‘wench’ will be Queen when you take my place on the throne,” he ground out. He stood from his seat and stalked toward his son, meeting his furious gaze with his own. “And, no, she will never be Mary Jane--that insipid infatuation you entertained in your adolescence. The fever took her years ago. If you continue to wallow in your grief, you’ll never be of any use to the monarchy. Your betrothed is a worthy match. Treat her as such or you will answer to me.”

_

The journey to York was arduous. The roads were slick with thin layers of ice. The carriage drivers had to maneuver at half their usual speed to prevent overturning. You and your party passed the time identifying birds and trees. For times of rest, a royal encampment was made; though most of your time was spent on the move. There was a sense of urgency radiating from your mother and those charged with transporting you. The snowfall preceding your wedding day had been interpreted to be fortuitous by the seer. Missing the auspicious window of time would risk losing the blessings of a bountiful union.

You bit back a sigh in your carriage seat. Shuri sat humming beside you. You wished you could switch places with her. Her mother, your aunt, had married into a kingdom with customs that differed from yours. Shuri was permitted to make a love match. If she wished, she could even rule without a spouse. You were not so fortunate.

How you longed for a romance as sweet as those you read about in secret. Longing glances, feather-light caresses, dulcet whispers of love and affection. You wished you had the chance to be courted, pursued, wooed! Instead, you were traded away to a mysterious royal with a terrible reputation. For what? Prestige? Birthing heirs? You would rather spend the rest of your days as a devotee of one of the deities. Any one of them.

“Chin up, dear. The castle is coming into view,” clucked your mother. 

You peered from the carriage window, obscuring your face behind velvet curtains. Shuri squeezed your hand as she, too, took in the sight of the glimmering palace spires. 

Your stomach turned.

_

Peter kept his face neutral as he watched you descend from the carriage and through the palace gates. He observed as you daintily lifted your skirts. You walked with your head high, but your eyes downcast. Peter realized, to his surprise, that you were not terribly horrid. The rumors of your beauty were not falsehoods. Not entirely exaggerated, either. 

You approached with sure steps and bent in a proper curtsy.

“Your Majesties,” you greeted the King and Queen. “Your Highness,” you added, bowing again in Peter’s direction. 

Your mother and the others exchanged their greetings.

“We are pleased to welcome you to our kingdom and for such a blessed occasion. You must be very tired from your journey. Let us see you to your rooms,” said the Queen of York

_

  
  


You spent the next days exploring your new home. It was expected that you would be anxious before the wedding. For that reason, no one thought twice when you spent most of your time in your quarters. Your mother spent most of her time with the Queen of York. But, Shuri stayed by your side. You had already been assigned a court, a group of ladies in waiting. They were all very kind and attentive, asking what you needed and very eager to answer any questions you had. But, for now, you just wanted some space. Shuri was the only person who looked at you with neither expectations, no pity. And that was why you spent the three days before your wedding with her. 

Peter spent his last days as a bachelor in the public eye. It was expected that his betrothed spend her days in seclusion. But, a Prince? He was to greet his people as a king would. This was his time to practice the role he had been born for. In those three days, he spent more time making appearances than he had in the last three years. Seeing him interact with the crowds with a smile on his face--forced or not--gave the people hope that a change was on the horizon.

_

The day of the wedding, seven women entered your bedchambers in a flurry.

“Your Highness,” one whispered, rousing you from your slumber. “We must prepare you for your wedding.” 

You reluctantly opened your heavy eyelids, expecting to be blinded by the sun. When you looked through the window curtains, you realized that the sun had not yet risen.

This was the beginning of a long day.

Breakfast was consumed in silence. It was difficult to swallow anything down, but you knew you needed your strength for the day ahead. Shuri, for her part, kept the mood light with a few jokes and reassuring smiles. It was nice while it lasted. Your mother entered the room after your meal to oversee the preparations.

“Why are you still in your nightclothes?” She scolded you. “The most important day of your life and you’re spending it tittering like a lazy milkmaid.”

She beckoned to one of the chambermaids.

“Run her bath,” she commanded.

To another she ordered, “Fetch her underclothes.”

“And you,” she said to a third, “bring the wedding gown and veil. I must see that it bears no marks or tears from the journey here.”

The maids moved in a flurry, rushing to obey your imposing mother. The leisure of the morning quickly dissipated as she continued to direct those around her.

“Fix your posture, girl,” she said to you. “You never could keep your back straight.”

Shuri-- _bless her_ \--came to the rescue.

“Auntie,” she said sweetly. “You have nearly just as much to prepare for. The Queen of York has appointed very capable hands for Y/N’s preparations. Do not worry. I’ll be sure all goes well.”

Your mother eyed her niece with a moment of suspicion. She considered her words.

“I will return before the ceremony to be sure that you are presentable,” she said finally.

You let out a sigh of relief as the door closed.

“I’m sure you’ll miss her the most, eh?”

The morning continued with a scalding bath and the rough scouring of your skin. Your body was rubbed with perfumed oils until it glistened in the burgeoning sunlight. Your scalp was scrubbed and your hair yanked and pulled into an ornate style. Your face was left almost completely bare, except for rich creams and rose petal powder. The maids helped you into the whisper-thin underthings that went beneath your gown. You were relieved to have escaped the obligation of a corset, but disconcerted by how scantily you were covered. The gown was next: a satin shift followed by a lace overdress. It was delicate and painfully ornate. While the garment was lightweight, it weighed heavily on you in other ways. Your shoes were flat and laced up the leg, perfect for dancing. The final touch was the jewelry: a gold arm cuff, layers of thin bracelets, a topaz-dotted necklace, and a tiara of vibranium and opal.

Shuri stood behind you in front of the mirror.

“You look stunning,” she gushed, hugging you tightly.

Not a moment later, your mother came blustering into the room. 

“Oh, good! You’re presentable. Now, come. Get into place. You shan’t keep the entire kingdom waiting while you dwell on sentiment.”

Escorted by your mother and trailed by Shuri and your ladies in waiting, you marched headfirst into fate. 

_

The ceremony went by in a blur. You participated as directed, the customs differing from yours. All the while, the Prince was stoic. He never looked you in the eye. He recited the words as they were fed to him. But, he put forth no effort, no emotion. He was as cold as you were frightened. 

The feast that followed went the same way. There was merriment and celebration all around you. Food and music and dancing, all endless. You tapped your foot against the floor. Half from nerves, half from wanting to get up and dance just once. You snuck a glance to the Prince, your _husband._ He never met your gaze. He preferred, it seemed, to look everywhere but at you. You decided then that you would not ask his permission, nor seek his approval. This was your wedding. You might as well enjoy at least a moment of it. 

Without a word, you cantered to the center floor. You were, again, grateful for the gauzy nature of your gown. It allowed you to move unencumbered. In the center of the main hall, you were met with eager grins and shy smiles. The people of York were incredibly hospitable; for that you were thankful. As the music increased in tempo, a gentleman approached you.

“Your Highness!” He beamed. “Welcome, fair maiden, to the Kingdom of York. Happy wishes on your nuptials.”

You smiled politely. The gentleman was tall. Even taller than Peter. His hair was dark. On his face, he wore the crooked smile of a man very familiar with trouble.

“Thank you…”

“Lord Barnes of Brooklyn, Princess. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he replied. He offered his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

You hesitated a moment. Wondering if his proposal was indecent. If your mother would approve. If you even cared.

You took Lord Barnes’ hand with a smile.

“Lead the way, kind sir.”

As the melody continued, your feet hardly touched the ground. Lord Barnes spun and twirled you all about the room. You were nearly dizzy from the pace of it, but the smile never left your face. Finally, a bit of happiness in a foreign land. Lord Barnes spun you from his arms into another’s, a man named Steven’s. Then, to a man named Anthony. Next, to a woman named Natalia. Lastly, to a lass named Wanda. By the end of the round, you were breathless and giddy. You never wanted it to end.

_

Peter watched from the head table as you pranced and skipped around like a dippy lamb. As if you had not a care in the world. You had looked like a little lamb before too. But more like one being carted off to slaughter. Now, you leapt and laughed as if everything was as it should be. As if you had not just been married off to a perfect stranger like a brainless pawn. It didn’t sit well with him, seeing you smile because of another’s actions. He did not wish to make you happy. He didn’t care enough for that. But to see the influence his friends and acquaintances had over you left him feeling...jealous?

He decided to put a stop to it.

_

You froze in confusion as your dance partner, Wanda, broke away from you suddenly. She left hurriedly with a curtsy and a quiet “Your Highness” before scurrying away. You opened your mouth to call after her when a large hand caught yours. You turned to see Peter glaring down at you.

“Your Highness,” you breathed.

He pulled you close, chest to chest.

“I do believe I am a worthy partner,” he said lowly.

“Yes, of course. Of course, Your Highness,” you faltered.

“Of course, Your Highness,” he parroted as the music increased its cadence. “Was that your plan all along, hm? Cross with me for ignoring you so you decided to go off and make me envious of my own friends? Is that it?”

Your chest tightened. How were you supposed to know who the Prince’s friends were? You had only just met him. You’d known him just a few days and he was already upset with you. 

What a wonderful start.

“No, Your Highness. I simply did not wish to bother you. You seemed quite uninterested in the festivities. I assumed you were tired or unhappy,” you explained.

He said nothing. Rather, he continued to lead you around the dancefloor with all the grace and stride of a man of his standing. 

When the music paused he bent to your ear and said, “It is time we take our leave.”

You shivered.

As you struggled to keep up with the Prince’s ling strides, a chorus of whistles and cheers saw you out. You took in a sharp breath. In all the worry of the last few days, you had somehow forgotten the customary events of the wedding night. Now that you and Peter were married, it was expected that you try for an heir. As soon as possible.

The Prince led you to your shared wing of the castle. The rooms were past your own private quarters and much larger. He pushed open the door of the parlor. Then, the study. And, finally, the bedchamber. As you ventured deeper into the suite, the sounds of the celebration grew quieter. When you reached the bedroom, you could hear not even a note of music. It was just the two of you now. 

And the silence. 

Peter regarded you wordlessly for what felt like an eternity. The hearth had been kindled but still you shivered. His eyes tarried over every part of your body. It was as if he was seeing you for the first time.

“I wanted so very much to hate you,” he confessed.

You looked at him in surprise. You expected him to resent you slightly. But, hatred seemed a bit unfair.

Peter chuckled to himself.

“You just had to go and spoil that too, didn’t you?”

You stood quietly, unable to dream up the proper response to his musings. This was the most he had spoken to you and you didn’t know what to make of it. 

“Quiet and charming. Alluring and demure. Naive and terribly beautiful.” He scoffed. “I should despise you. I did.”

“I--I don’t understand,” you whispered. He stood close to you now. You held your breath as he trailed a finger down the line of your jaw.

“I loved once before,” he mused quietly. “A girl forbidden to me due to her social standing. She was quite unlike you. Boarish, loud. My father hated her. But I was smitten. Now, here you are. Quiet and obedient. Chosen by my mother and father. I should hate you. But, you make it so hard. Batting those lashes, shying away at all the attention. Flouncing around in your satin and piquing the interest of every one of my bachelor friends.” His jaw clenched.

“Take off your clothes,” he ordered.

You blinked in bewilderment. This man was quite a puzzle. 

“Shall I do it for you,” he questioned with a raised brow.

“N--no, Your Highness,” you breathed. Quickly, you unlaced the ribbons of your gown. You untied the laces of your shoes and stepped out of the chemise. You stood before the Prince in gossamer-thin undergarments. A sudden chill rippled through you; you folded your arms over your chest for some modesty.

“All of your clothes,” the Prince emphasized. 

You bit your lip nervously before removing the last barrier between your body and your new husband.

When you were bare, he appraised you once again. He rubbed his chin in thought. Coming to some sort of conclusion he gave you an order.

“Kneel.”

Hesitantly, you lowered to your knees on the cold wood floor.

“No one else will see you this way, naked and obedient. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” you whispered. You clenched your hands into tight fists. Was this how a wedding night was supposed to go?

“Say it,” he ordered.

“I--no one else will see me this way,” you repeated, throat growing tight.

“Good girl,” he noted.

“No one else will touch as I will tonight,” he said and paused.

“No one else will touch me as you will tonight,” you repeated, hoping it was what was wanted from you.

Peter smiled, seemingly pleased with your response.

“Good girl,” he said again. His words caused your cheeks to warm. You felt exposed, kneeling here naked on the floor. But his praise banished any shame from your mind.

“You will come to love me, no matter how...difficult you may find it at first,” he stated.

You looked up at him then. He didn’t look at you, but off in the distance.

Still, you replied, “I will come to love you, no matter how difficult.”

His eyes, glassy now, drifted to yours.

“Do you swear it?”

You nodded.

“Then we must make it official,” he said as he marched toward the hearth.

Unsure of what to expect, you stayed put.

He returned with a lit candle and a stick of blood-red sealing wax. You peered up at him curiously. You didn’t see parchment anywhere in sight. What was there to stamp and seal?

It wasn’t until the first drop of hot wax on your skin that you understood. You hissed as the molten substance hit your chest and began to cool. Rather than press a seal to your skin, the Prince held the wax stick to the small flame. This drop landed on your shoulder. Your stomach clenched at the sensation. 

“No one else will see you like this.” A drop on your neck.

“No one else will see me like this,” you repeated.

“Good girl," he murmured.

“No one else will touch you like this.” A drop across your breasts.

“No one else will touch me like this,” you squeaked.

Another praise.

“You will come to love me.” A drop between your thighs.

“I will love you,” you breathed.

“Good girl.”

He melted the entire stick onto your body. Your throat, breasts, arms, stomach, and thighs were covered in cooling wax. Finished, he blew out the candle and placed it on a side table.

He knelt on his knees in front of you, still fully clothed. His lips were just a hair’s breadth from yours.

“Say it again,” he commanded. 

“I will love you,” you whispered.

“Again,” he ordered as his fingers ventured to the apex of your thighs.

You gasped as he stroked the sensitive flesh of your center. His fingers came away glistening with your arousal.

“Good girl.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always welcomed!


End file.
